A 
DRJEAMS^ 


WOMEN 


, 


V 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Je.an   S.    Fel  ton 


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A 
DREAM 

OF 

FAIR 

WOMEN 


Y 


UL 


\ 


\ 


\ 


REAM  OF 
AIR  WOMEN 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HARRISON    FISHER 


DECORATIONS    BY 
E  STETSON  CRAWFORD 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS'MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYKH.HT  190/ 
THE  BOBBS-MKHIUI.L  COMPANY 

OCTOBER 


TO  THE 

FAIR  WOMEN   OF 
OUR  DREAMS 


2098228 


A  Dream  of  Fair 
Women 


CONTENTS 

LINES  FROM 

13      .       Alfred  Tennyson 

Marjorie  •'.,     .      .      .       21        Meredith  Nicholson 
Love's  Ideal  27      .     .  William  Winter 

From  "My  Witness" 
By  courtesy  of  the  author 

The  Light  of  Love       .      33    James WhitcombRiley 


The  Love  Gase 


38 


Frank  L.  Stanton 


k 


Like  a  Lilac     ...      43     Maurice  Francis  Egan 

By  courtesy  of  the  author 


51      .    Mena  Kemp  Ogden 


LINKS  FKOM 
The  Nun  57       .      .      .    Leigh  Hunt 


O 


T 


Beware       ....      63      .    Henry  Wadsworth 

Ky  courtesy  of  Longfellow 

"Houghton,  Mifflin  and 
Company 


Son-,'      .                   .      .  69  .    George  MacDonaU 

Ballad  of  Fair  Sinners  7o  .       .    Samuel  McCoy 

Song 81  .      .    Thomas  Carew 

To  Hear  Her  Sing       .  87  James  WhitcombRiley 

Her  Beautiful  Eyes     .  93  James  WhitcombRiley 


O 


c^ 


At  the  Church  Gate    .        99        William  Makepeace 

Thackeray 

She  Walks  in  Beauty        103     .      .      .   Lord  Byron 


Private  Theatricals     .      Ill      .     .    Louise  Imogene 

By  courtesy  ,>f  the  author  GllinCV 


Laughing  Son 


117  James WhitcombRiley 


Postscript  .      .      .      .      123    .    Ernest  Wentworth 

From  "The  Yellow  Hook" 
By  courtesy  of 
John  Lane  Company 


I  Love  My  Jean      .      .      129      .      .      Robert  Burns 

The  Time  I've  Lost  in 
Wooing  ....      135  .    Thomas  Moore 


I,  turning,  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise, 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  unroll'd; 

A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold,  black  eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 


Ci 


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She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began: 
"I  govern' d  men  by  change,  and  so  I  sway'd 

All  moods.   'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 


\ 


\ 


The  ever- shifting  currents  of  the  blood, 
According  to  my  humor,  ebb  and  flow. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 
That  makes  my  only  woe." 


An  arch  of  blue  above  a  quiet  lake, 

And  still  low  shores  where  languid  ripples  break; 

In  quiet  deeps  of  wood  the  brooding  June 

Watches  the  shadows  of  late  afternoon, 

And  o'er  the  water  idle  swallows  slip 

With  startled  cries,  to  find  their  wings  adrip! 


A 


But  pleasantest  of  all  it  is  to  see 
There,  in  the  swaying  hammock,  Marjorie, 
Repeating  rhythmic  tales  the  while  her  eyes 
Mirror  the  lake,  the  wood,  the  shore,  the  skies 


Her  grave  voice  leads  afar  through  golden  ways 
Up  sunny  slopes  among  the  fair  dream  days, 
Where  trumpets  faintly  blow  from  guarded  walls 
And  Youth  (or  Marjorie!)  the  answer  calls. 


• 


Her  young  face  is  good  and  fair, 

Lily-white  and  rosy-red; 
And  the  brown  and  silken  hair 

Hovers,  mist-like,  round  her  head. 


And  her  voice  is  soft  and  low, 
Clear  as  music  and  as  sweet; 

Hearing  it,  you  hardly  know 

Where  the  sound  and  silence  meet 


' 

•-, 


All  the  magic,  who  can  tell, 
Of  her  laughter  and  her  sighs? 

Or  what  heavenly  meanings  dwell 
In  her  kind,  confiding  eyes? 


All  her  ways  are  winning  ways, 
Full  of  tenderness  and  grace; 

And  a  witching  sweetness  plays 
Fondly  o'er  her  gentle  face. 


The  clouds  have  deepened  o'er  the  night 
Till,  through  the  dark  profound, 

The  moon  is  but  a  stain  of  light, 
And  all  the  stars  are  drowned; 


And  all  the  stars  are  drowned,  my  love, 

And  all  the  skies  are  drear; 
But  what  care  we  for  light  above, 

If  light  of  love  is  here? 


The  wind  is  like  a  wounded  thing 

That  beats  about  the  gloom 
With  baffled  breast  and  drooping  wing, 

And  wail  of  deepest  doom ; 
And  wail  of  deepest  doom,  my  love ; 

But  what  have  we  to  fear 
From  night,  or  rain,  or  winds  above, 

With  love  and  laughter  here? 


A  red  rose  at  Lucinda's  feet: 
Ho!  gallants— east  and  west, 

Who'll  race  that  royal  rose  to  greet 
Who'll  wear  it  on  his  breast? 

A  red  rose  at  Lucinda's  feet : 
Who  loves  Luanda  best? 


A  red  rose  at  Luanda's  feet: 

Ho!  gallants— speed  amain! 
That  rose  hath  known  her  kisses  sweet- 

Her  lips  its  crimson  stain! 
A  red  rose  at  Luanda's  feet: 

What  knight  the  rose  will  gain? 


A 


-4s 


A  red  rose  at  Luanda's  feet: 

See  where  her  lips  have  pressed! 

Through  light  and  storm  sure-mettled— fleet, 
Speed,  lovers,  east  and  west! 

A  red  rose  at  Luanda's  feet: 
Who  loves  Luanda  best? 


A 


\ 


Like  a  lilac  in  the  spring 

Is  my  love,  my  lady-love ; 
Purple-white,  the  lilacs  fling 

Scented  blossoms  from  above: 
So  my  love,  my  lady-love, 

Throws  soft  glances  on  my  heart; 
Ah,  my  dainty  lady-love, 

Every  glance  is  Cupid's  dart. 


Like  a  pansy  in  the  spring 

Is  my  love,  my  lady-love; 
For  her  velvet  eyes  oft  bring 

Golden  fancies  from  above: 
Ah,  my  heart  is  pansy-bound 

By  those  eyes  so  tender-true; 
Balmy  heart' s-ease  have  I  found, 

Dainty  lady-love,  in  you. 


Like  the  changeful  month  of  spring 

Is  my  love,  my  lady-love; 
Sunshine  comes  and  glad  birds  sing, 

Then  a  rain-cloud  floats  above: 
So  your  moods  change  with  the  wind, 

April-tempered  lady-love ; 
All  the  sweeter,  to  my  mind. 

You're  a  riddle,  lady-love. 


Sweetheart,  I  dare  not  think  how  soon 

Our  clasping  hands  must  part, 
Our  flying  feet  be  out  of  tune, 

And  all  untuned  in y  heart: 
The  veiy  sleeve  that  little  hand 

Caresses  with  its  touch 
Is  thrilling  'neath  the  gentle  clasp 

That  honors  it  so  much. 


The  rose,  whose  petals  burst  apart 
Against  your  sunny  hair, 

Thus  nestled  to  my  heart  has  shed 
A  lifetime  fragrance  there. 


Play  on,  0  fairy  strain,  too  soon 

Will  silence  break  the  spell, 
How  sad,  how  sweet  the  last  dear  waltz 

Before  we  say  farewell. 


If  you  become  a  nun,  dear, 

A  friar  I  will  be; 
In  any  cell  you  run,  dear, 

Pray  look  behind  for  me. 


The  roses  all  turn  pale,  too; 
The  doves  all  take  the  veil,  too; 

The  blind  will  see  the  show; 
What!  you  become  a  nun,  my  dear? 

I'll  not  believe  it,  no! 


If  you  become  a  nun,  dear, 

The  bishop  Love  will  be; 
The  Cupids  every  one,  dear, 

Will  chant,  "We  trust  in  thee!" 
The  incense  will  go  sighing, 
The  candles  fall  a-dying, 

The  water  turn  to  wine: 
What!  you  go  take  the  vows,  my  dear? 

be  mine. 


I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 

Beware!  Beware! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee! 


She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 

Take  care! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down, 

Beware!  Beware! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee! 


c 


And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue, 

Take  care! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 

Beware!  Beware! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee! 


She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow; 

Take  care! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show; 

Beware!  Beware! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee! 


She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair; 

Take  care! 
It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware!  Beware! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee! 


c 


Eyes  of  beauty,  eyes  of  light, 
Sweetly,  softly,  sadly  bright! 
Draw  not,  ever,  o'er  my  eye, 
Radiant  mists  of  ecstasy. 


Be  not  proud,  0  glorious  orbs ! 
Not  your  mystery  absorbs ; 
But  the  starry  soul  that  lies 
Looking  through  your  night  of  eyes 


One  moment  be  less  perfect,  sweet ; 
Sin  once  in  something  small; 
One  fault  to  lift  me  on  my  feet 
From  love's  too  perfect  thrall! 


'fir 


She's  back!  her  penance,  self-imposed,  is  over! 
Lent  passed,  now  for  ten  naughty  months  in  clover! 
The  Devil  is  to  have  his  due,  the  rascal! 
And  ball-room  whispers  drown  the  Thoughts  of 
Pascal. 


A 


if 


Gad !  how  demurely,  cowled  and  robed,  she  scorned  us ! 
Given  time,  she  would  have  quite  de-hoofed, 

de-horned  us! 
But  Vogue,  which  sets  the  style  for  prayers  as  well 

as  pleasures 
Took  pity,  opened  doors,  gave  hack  our  treasures! 


IX. 


Then  take  this  welcome  from  a  gray  old  sinner 
Who's  told  to  diet,  but  prefers  his  dinner: 
Lent's  well  enough  as,  say,  an  appetizer, 
But,  sanctus  dixit,  she  who  dines  is  wiser! 


Y 


Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose; 
For  in  your  beauties,  Orient  deep, 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 


Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 


Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note 


To  hear  her  sing— to  hear  her  sing- 
It  is  to  hear  the  birds  of  Spring 
In  dewy  groves  on  blooming  sprays 
Pour  out  their  blithest  roundelays. 


Such  joy  it  is  to  hear  her  sing, 
We  fall  in  love  with  everything — 
The  simple  things  of  every  day 
Grow  lovelier  than  words  can  say. 


To  hear  the  bulbul's  voice  that  shook 
The  throat  that  trilled  for  Lalla  Rookh 
What  wonder  we  in  homage  bring 
Our  hearts  to  her— to  hear  her  sing! 


O  her  beautiful  eyes!  they  are  blue  as  the  dew 
On  the  violet's  bloom  when  the  morning  is  new, 
And  the  light  of  their  love  is  the  gleam  of  the  sun 
O'er  the  meadows  of  Spring  where  the  quick 

shadows  run 
As  the  morn  shifts  the  mists  and  the  clouds  from 

the  skies — 
So  I  stand  in  the  dawn  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 


And  her  beautiful  eyes  are  as  mid-day  to  me, 
When  the  lily-bell  bends  with  the  weight  of  the  bee, 
And  the  throat  of  the  thrush  is  a-pulse  in  the  heat, 
And  the  senses  are  drugged  with  the  subtle  and  sweet 
And  delirious  breaths  of  the  air's  lullabies — 
So  I  swoon  in  the  noon  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 


her  beautiful  eyes!  they  have  smitten  mine  own 
As  a  glory  glanced  down  from  the  glare  of  the  Throne; 
And  I  reel,  and  I  falter  and  fall,  as  afar 
Fell  the  shepherds  that  looked  on  the  mystical  Star, 
And  yet  dazed  in  the  tidings  that  bade  them  arise- 


So  I  grope  through  the  night  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 


The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming ; 
They've  hush'd  the  minster  bell; 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell; 

She's  coming,  she's  coming! 


Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 


My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast 

And  hastening  thither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast; 
She  comes— she's  here,  she's  past! 

May  heaven  go  with  her! 


Kneel  undisturb'd,  fair  saint! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 


But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait, 
And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 


She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies' 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 


One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face — 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling-place 


\N 


And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow; 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 


You  were  a  haughty  beauty,  Polly, 

(That  was  in  the  play,) 
I  was  the  lover  melancholy, 

(That  was  in  the  play.) 
And  when  your  fan  and  you  receded, 
And  all  my  passion  lay  unheeded, 
If  still  with  tenderer  words  I  pleaded, 

That  was  in  the  play! 


€ 


I  met  my  rival  at  the  gateway, 

(That  was  in  the  play,) 
And  so  we  fought  a  duel  straightway. 

(That  was  in  the  play). 


But  when  Jack  hurt  my  arm  unduly, 
And  you  rushed  over,  softened  newly, 
And  kissed  me,  Polly!  truly,  truly, 
Was  that  in  the  play? 


Sing  us  something  full  of  laughter; 

Tune  your  harp,  and  twang  your  strings, 
Till  your  glad  voice,  chirping  after, 

Mate  the  song  the  robin  sings; 
Loose  your  lips,  and  let  them  flutter 

Like  the  wings  of  wanton  birds, — 
Though  they  naught  but  laughter  utter, 

Laugh,  and  we'll  not  miss  the  words. 


Sing  in  ringing  tones  that  mingle 
In  a  melody  that  flings 

Joyous  echoes  in  a  jingle 

Sweeter  than  the  minstrel  sings; 

Sing  of  Winter,  Spring  or  Summer, 
Clang  of  war,  or  low  of  herds; 

Trill  of  cricket,  roll  of  drummer- 
Laugh,  and  we'll  not  miss  the  words. 


Like  the  lisping  laughter  glancing 

From  the  meadow  brooks  and  springs, 
Or  the  river's  ripples  dancing 

To  the  tune  the  current  sings — 
Sing  of  Now,  and  the  Hereafter ; 

Let  your  glad  song,  like  the  birds', 
Overflow  with  limpid  laughter — 

Laugh,  and  we'll  not  miss  the  words. 


ttr 


This  enviable  paper!  Oh,  to  think 
That  it  will  go,  will  really,  really  go 
To  her,  my  mistress.  Had  it  soul  to  know 

What  enviable  paper !  Oh,  to  think— 


\ 


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The  sweet  light  of  her  eyes,  her  sweet,  clear  eyes, 
Shall  shine  on  it;  her  sweet,  cool  hands  caress  it, 
And  bear  it  to  her  sweet,  warm  lips;  and  press  it 

To  the  sweet,  pale  roses  of  her  cheek.   First,  eyes, 


Hands,  lips,  and  cheek,  and  then,  at  night,  all  night, 
In  the  sweet  darkness  of  her  room  (ah,  so!) 
In  the  sweet  stillness  of  her  room  (speak  low!) 

I  guess  where  it  will  lie,  at  night,  all  night. 


0'  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  hlaw, 

I  dearly  lo'e  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lass  that  I  lo'e  best; 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

Wi'  mony  a  hill  between; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 


c 


I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 
Sae  lovely,  sweet  and  fair: 

I  hear  her  voice  in  ilka  bird, 
Wi'  music  charm  the  air: 


There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green; 

There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings, 
But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


\v 


The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes, 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 
Though  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorn' d  the  lore  she  brought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they've  taught  me. 


.  A<  *r"TrCtv-:~ 


Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted, 

Like  him,  the  Sprite, 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted. 
Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me, 
But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me, 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turn'd  away, 
Oh!  winds  could  not  outrun  me. 


And  are  those  follies  going? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing? 
No,  vain,  alas!  the  endeavor 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever; 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 


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